


crying over spilled nog

by awfuloffal



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Desperation, Omorashi, Watersports, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 14:28:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21357730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awfuloffal/pseuds/awfuloffal
Summary: indrid cold pisses himself and then cries about it
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	crying over spilled nog

Divination was a thankless job. 

Without even going near the cost of all these sketchbooks, most of them to be filled up with useless knowledge anyway, Indrid was constantly bombarded with ridiculous questions.

Ned wanted to know the winning lottery numbers, Mama demanded information on up and coming abominations, and even Jake Coolice came to him asking about whether he would wipe out on the slopes that day.

Sometimes Indrid wished he had never come out of hiding. 

But deep down a part of him loved it, because that’s what he was made to do. Sure, on Sylvain his requests wouldn’t necessarily be so low-stakes, but it filled him with joy to be needed. To be sought-out instead of avoided. 

So he humoured his inquisitors, wrote Ned a string of random numbers that was just as likely to win as any other, warned Jake of particularly slippery slopes, and devotedly scryed into the future for any hints of danger. 

With the final touches put onto a drawing of some deer skittering through the woods he finally allowed himself to relax and sit back. And he was immediately struck by a sharp pain in his bladder. He curled into himself instinctively and winced when a multitude of new futures flashed in front of his eyes. 

“Oh dear.” Indrid mumbled as a blush grew across his face. In more than half of the futures available to him, he was going to piss himself. He hadn’t meant to lose track of time, but all that eggnog had to go somewhere.

This was okay. He had the power of foresight, he was not going to soil himself-

A sharp pain had him pushing his hand between his legs as if outside pressure could beat out the inside.

Indrid whimpered. Every second that passed his chances of making it to the bathroom got worse. He had to get moving. 

His legs were asleep and he got up with a stumble and a deep throbbing pain. He nearly folded in half, and both his hands went over his groin- squeezing and grabbing in blind desperation. 

It didn’t help that now in about 75% of the futures he gave in and pissed himself, wetting his couch, the floor, and the ghost relief he felt through those visions was nearly euphoric.

He shuddered and a trickle of urine flowed out of his cock, wetting the crotch of his pants before he squeezed down again. He needed to go, _now_. He shuffled around his crowded Winnebago, cursing at the piles of trash blocking his way. All the while he was cursed with the knowledge of just how wonderful and relieving the feeling would be if he just let go, releasing his bladder onto the floor and moaning in relief- and then the absolute shame that followed. 

One foot in front of the other, if he broke into a sprint his chances fell drastically but there was always the chance-

Another sharp pain brought him to his knees. Oh no, oh no, no no no…

He scooted forward on just his knees, doubled over from the desperation. Just a little farther.

Piss leaked out around his fingers and he choked back a sob. 

There was still a measly 5 percent chance but he was going to cling to that with everything he had. 

His bladder was pulsing and his hands could only do so much, he had to clench his thighs together to prevent any more leaks but that stopped his progress forward. 

Indrid could do nothing except watch the futures dissipate in front of him.

4%, 3%, 2%, and

Indrid moaned in relief when he finally let go, leaned so far over his forehead touched the pseudo-wood paneling of his floor. Even with his eyes closed to avoid having to see his shame he could still hear it as the puddle under him grew larger, and tears threatened to leak from his eyes. He couldn’t even hold those back though and a dry sob wracked his throat.

This was _humiliating_ and _mortifying_, he was the Court Seer of Sylvain, he was over a hundred years old, he was the god damn _Mothman_\- and he was making a mess on the floor of an RV.

His steady stream slowed to a trickle, and then to nothing. Indrid blinked away his tears, not wanting to bring his dirty hands anywhere near his face. He finally allowed himself to look down at his own body, the dark spot in the crotch of his sweatpants and around the knees where he was still kneeling in it. 

Next time he got a stupid question he was just going to tell them so shove it.


End file.
